Welcome Home
by Haasak
Summary: Prequel to Human: Professor Xavier is introduced to a young, deaf boy named Scott Summers.
1. Chapter 1

This is a prequel to my story, _Human_, in which Scott Summers is deaf.You may want to read that story first. Thanks for reading!

It was early morning, the sun just creeping over a distant hilltop. Dr. Hank McCoy switched on his blinker before turning right down a private tree-lined lane. On his left, a large sign read: Nebraska Children's Psychiatric Center. Professor Charles Xavier dozed in the seat beside him. Hank nudged him gently.

"Charles, we're here," Hank said, as he pulled up to a security booth at the end of the lane. A uniformed security guard emerged from the booth and approached Hank's open window.

"What can I do for you?"

"Hello, I'm Dr. Hank McCoy. This is Professor Charles Xavier. We're here to see Dr. Kenneth Glendale."

"One moment please." The security guard ducked back inside the small booth and spoke into his radio. A few moments later, he returned with two visitor's passes.

"Wear these around your necks please," he said. When the gate in front of them lifted, Hank maneuvered the small rental car through it and into the visitor parking lot ahead.

Hank unloaded Charles's wheelchair from the trunk and placed it beside the passenger side door where Charles sat waiting. He had grown so accustomed to Hank's help that he barely fussed as Hank helped him transfer from the car and into his chair. Hank started towards the entrance, pushing Charles in front of him.

Charles gazed up at the large brick building in front of him. It was at least four stories tall, with thick white columns framing the front door. The building was old, but not unpleasant. To the left of the building was a small basketball court. An abandoned basketball lay on the ground nearby. To the right of the building, a brick path led to a flower garden, overrun with weeds. Park benches lined the path. The grounds were pleasant enough, but seemed to be deserted. It was eerily quiet as Charles and Hank made their way to the door.

The front door creaked as Hank pushed it open. The entranceway was dark and drab. Inside, a second security guard approached them. They were each patted down, their jackets passed through an x-ray machine to the right. With a nod, the security guard directed them to a desk at the front of the entranceway where a surly-looking woman, her hair tight up in a bun, sat filing her nails. When several seconds passed without them being acknowledged, Charles cleared his throat.

"I'm Professor Charles Xavier," he said, "I'm here . . ."

"Go ahead," said the woman, without looking up. She pushed a button and with a low buzz, the large double doors to their right clicked open. With a quick glance at each other, Charles and Hank passed through the doorway.

The change from one room to the next was remarkable. Now they stood in brightly lit lobby, slightly resembling a doctor's waiting room. Sunlight shone through a large window on the eastern side of the building. The floor was carpeted and cushioned chairs were arranged in a row. There was an old vertical piano to the right of the window. Beside it, a wooden bookshelf was stocked with slightly worn children's books and toys. An old black and white television blared in the opposite corner. The carpet could have used a cleaning and the paint on the walls was chipping in places, but the room seemed homey and lived in compared to the deserted grounds and dreary entryway.

As he examined the room, Charles noticed a teenage girl – maybe fifteen or sixteen- sitting on the floor in one corner; her suspicious eyes followed them. On the other side of the room, a young boy no more than eight years old stood perfectly straight against the wall. Unlike the girl, he hadn't seemed to notice the visitors at all. Instead, he stared straight ahead into space. Charles could hear a small child crying in the distance.

Charles and Hank made their way to the front of the room where a woman sat sifting through papers behind a glass window. Seeing them approach, she slid the window open, smiling. "Rosanne" was written on her name tag. Charles was relieved to see kindness in her face.

"Good morning," she said. "Are you visiting a patient today?"

"Actually, we have an appointment with Dr. Glendale," Charles replied.

"Ah, you must be Charles. He's expecting you. I'll let him know you're here." She disappeared for a moment and then returned saying, "He'll be just a moment." Then looking at Hank, she added, "You're welcome to take a seat," and gestured to the chairs behind him. He thanked her and sat. No more than a minute later, a tall, greying man dressed in a disheveled white doctor's robe emerged from behind a closed door. He smiled brightly when he spotted Charles.

"Professor Xavier. Thank you so much for coming," he said. "I'm Kenneth Glendale," he added, holding out his hand.

"Charles, please," Charles responded as he shook the doctor's hand. "Thank you for seeing us."

He then gestured towards Hank, "This is my good friend, Dr. Hank McCoy." Hank nodded and shook the other doctor's hand.

With another smile, the doctor said, "If you'll come this way, we can talk in my office." He led them down a dreary hallway, turning into the second room on the left. The inside of the building was not as well kept as the outside. The carpeted hallways were dirty and stained and the walls were in dire need of a paint job.

Dr. Glendale's office was small, white, and windowless. A wooden desk took up most of the room. Stashed behind it was a bookshelf overflowing with medical textbooks and files. The desk itself was cluttered with papers. The doctor invited them in, offered Hank a spare chair from the corner, and sat behind his desk.

"Thank you again for coming all this way," said Dr. Glendale. "I don't want to waste your time so I'll get right to it. Earlier this month, a young boy arrived at the center with an . . . unusual ability. A former colleague of mine introduced me to your research on mutation and recommended that I contact you. I'm hoping you can help him. He doesn't belong in a place like this."

"I'll do whatever I can," said Charles. "What can you tell us about him?"

"I'll tell you everything I know, but unfortunately that's not much," he said. He spun in his chair and grabbed a file from the bookshelf behind him. He slid it across the desk to Charles as he spoke, "His name is Scott Summers. He's fourteen years old. He was born in Alaska; his father was an Air Force pilot based in Anchorage. Four years ago, Scott's parents were killed in a plane crash over Nebraska. Scott was on board as well, but survived the crash. He spent two years at the Omaha Home for Boys. Since then, he's been placed in two foster homes. He was removed from the first due to severe physical abuse."

Charles pulled two photos from the file and frowned. The photos showed a young boy's chest and back, covered in bruises, cuts, and cigarette burns. Charles passed the photos to Hank, who examined them as well.

Looking up, Hank asked, "How did he end up here?"

"About three months ago, after being placed with a second foster family, Scott began experiencing severe migraines. His foster parents took him to several doctors and specialists, but no one seemed to know what was causing the headaches. During one especially bad headache, he woke up, opened his eyes, and" – the doctor paused – "blasted an entire wall of the house to bits. According to his foster parents, his eyes emitted some sort of reddish force that easily tore through the wall." Charles and Hank exchanged a meaningful glance.

"Since then, Scott's refused to open his eyes; he wears a bandage across his eyes to keep them shut. He won't let anyone close to him, except for me." A hint of pride appeared on the doctor's face as he added, "He seems to trust me for some reason."

"The foster parents are decent people," he continued. "They don't want to involve the police, but they also don't feel safe with Scott in the house. A friend of a friend suggested that they contact the Center. When Scott arrived, I examined him and recommended that he be admitted. I don't think he belongs in a psychiatric ward," he said quickly, "but I don't want him out on the streets either." The doctor paused, and then asked, "Do you think you can help him?"

"I hope so," said Charles. "Can we see him?"

"Of course, but before you do, there's one more thing I should mention. We think Scott is deaf. We haven't had him tested yet, but he doesn't respond to sound, nor has he spoken since he's been here."

Hank lifted his eyebrows in surprise, "So he can't see _or_ hear? How do you communicate with him?"

"Not very easily, unfortunately," said the doctor. "That's one of the reasons we know so little about him." With that, Dr. Glendale stood. "If you'd like to meet him, I can arrange it. I apologize, but I have an appointment in just a few minutes. However, I can have one of the security guards bring you to him, and then meet up with you as soon as I can."

When Charles agreed, the doctor stuck his head out of his office door and called down the hallway: "Ned!" The security guard in question turned and sauntered down the hallway in the direction of the three men now waiting outside Dr. Glendale's office. He was average height and balding. His uniform shirt was tucked into his pants a bit too tightly so that the fabric struggled to contain his rounded belly.

"Ned, would you mind?" the doctor asked. "These gentlemen would like to see Scott Summers in Room 3B. Can you let them in?"

"Sure thing, Doc," said Ned, looking Charles and Hank over with a smug expression before grunting, "Follow me." The three men took an elevator up to the third floor. Ned led them to the end of the hallway, unlocking the last door on the left. The door was labeled: 3B – Summers.

"This is it," he said, gesturing for Charles and Hank to enter. The room was just as small and plain as the doctor's office. Like the rest of the place, it needed a scrub and a fresh coat of paint. A small metal bed was pushed up against the wall on the left side of the room, a bedside table and lamp beside it. An old wooden dresser was flush against the opposite wall.

Sitting on the bed with his knees pressed tightly to his chest, was a skinny boy with messy brown hair and a white bandage wrapped tightly around his head and across his eyes. He was dressed in a dingy white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, torn at each knee. He was so small that if Charles hadn't known his age, he would have thought him closer to eleven or twelve than fourteen. The boy showed no sign that he knew they were there.

Ned lingered for a moment. Gesturing to Scott, he said "I don't know what you want with the kid. He's dumb. Doesn't respond to nothing." He smirked. "Look at him, he's fourteen and won't go nowhere without that freakin' teddy bear." Charles glanced at the boy again and saw what Ned was referring to. In his left hand, Scott clutched a worn-out, stuffed bear. It was faded brown, torn in a couple spots, and missing one of its eyes, but it was the only thing in the room that seemed to belong to the boy.

Before Charles could respond to the guard's comment, Ned had crossed the room, yanked the bear violently from Scott's grip, and tossed it into the corner. Charles could feel Scott's emotions wash off him in waves: first shock, then confusion, and then anger.

Ned snickered as he watched Scott feel for the lamp on the bedside table, then throw it as hard as he could in Ned's general direction. The lamp, however, was still plugged into the wall and barely went a foot before before crashing to the ground, the light bulb shattering into a million pieces. Ned stopped laughing, a wild look on his face. He grabbed Scott's collar, yanking him forward then slamming him back hard into the wall behind him. Scott's head hit the wall with a thud.

Hank hardly concealed a growl as he clenched his fists and took a few steps forward, just as Charles yelled, "That's quite enough!" Ned turned to Charles with a smirk. "He's just a child," said Charles.

Ned's smirk disappeared. "There are no children here," he said. He turned and left, leaving the shattered lamp on the floor.

With Ned gone, Charles focused all of his attention on Scott. The boy was pressed up against the wall, knees back to his chest. He held his hand tenderly to his head where it had hit the wall a moment ago.

Charles was lost. He had no idea how to earn this boy's trust, especially after that display. After all, he had never spent much time with children. Let alone children in psychiatric wards. That were deaf. And blind. Unsure, he tried speaking:

"Scott, my name is Professor Charles Xavier. Can you hear me?" Scott didn't move.

Charles tried again, this time sending telepathically, "Scott? My name is Professor Charles Xavier. Do you understand?" Scott's head shot up instantly, the slowly forming bump on his head forgotten. Charles felt Scott's feelings shift; the pain, fear, and anxiety were still there, but there was something else too . . . curiosity?

Encouraged, Charles continued, "My friend Hank here is a doctor. Perhaps he could take a look at your head. Would that be okay, Scott?"

Scott continued to sit stock-still and alert. Charles turned to Hank and nodded. Hank approached the bed slowly, and sat down on the edge. Scott started slightly at the movement of the bed, but stayed put. Hank slowly reached out with his hand. He touched Scott's hair lightly, and then felt around for any damage. Scott seemed to be holding his breath, but allowed Hank to work. Within seconds, Hank found a large bump. Scott winced slightly as Hank touched it. Though the bump was tender, there was no blood. Normally Hank would have examined Scott's eyes to check for a concussion, but given the circumstances, that was impossible.

When Hank was finished, he pulled his hand from Scott's head. As he did so, his hand just grazed the side of Scott's head, shifting the bandage that covered Scott's eyes. Scott lurched back violently, throwing himself into the far corner of the bed and pressing himself against the wall, as though he were trying to disappear through it.

"I'm sorry," Hank mumbled, more to Charles than to Scott.

"It's alright. He's a bit skittish it seems."

"A _bit_?" Hank questioned.

Hoping to win back Scott's trust, Charles sent "Scott, you're okay. It was an accident. We just want to talk. No one is going to hurt you." Scott, seemingly unconvinced, stayed where he was. Looking around the room for anything that might help him, Charles's eyes fell on the bear in the corner.

"Hank would you mind?" Charles asked, pointing to the teddy bear on the floor. Hank bent down, picked up the bear, and handed it to Charles. Charles rolled towards the bed, getting as close to Scott as he could.

"I think this is yours," he sent, placing the bear next to Scott's leg, just within his reach. Scott reached out, taking the bear and holding it tightly to his chest. For a few minutes, nothing changed; they all sat in silence, waiting.

Minutes later, just as Charles was about to give up, Scott inched, ever-so-slightly forward. Charles held his breath. Over the next few minutes, inch by inch, Scott made his way to the edge of the bed. Soon, he sat close enough for Charles to touch him, though Charles didn't dare try.

Surprisingly, it was Scott who reached his hand out, hesitantly at first, in Charles's direction. Charles held still, not wanting to startle the boy. Scott's hand brushed against the frame of Charles's wheelchair. If Scott was surprised to find the wheelchair there, he didn't show it. He moved his hand slowly, feeling the armrest, then the top of the wheel. After a few moments, he moved his hand to the right, feeling Charles's leg for the first time. He pulled his hand back quickly, as though the leg were on fire.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Dr. Glendale had returned from his appointment.

"How are you doing?" he asked, glancing at the broken lamp on the floor with an enquiring expression. Hank's expression became angry again as he opened his mouth to reply, but Charles held up a hand, quieting him.

"We'll explain in your office," Charles said. Dr. Glendale looked unsure, but nodded. "I think we're making some progress," Charles continued, looking back at Scott.

"Glad to hear it. Do you mind if I perform a quick exam?" Charles moved aside to make way for the doctor. He watched as Dr. Glendale banged twice on the side of Scott's bed. Scott perked up immediately, turning in the doctor's direction.

At Charles's curious look, the doctor explained, "It lets him know I'm here." He opened his medical bag and went to work. He took Scott's blood pressure, looked into his ears, nose, and throat, and took his temperature. Scott was a perfect patient. When the doctor was finished, he turned back to Charles and Hank.

Looking from one man to the other, he asked, "So what do you think? Can you do anything for him?"

"Yes, I think we can," said Charles. "But I'd need to take him to our facility in New York. I've been planning for some time to open a school – a sort of sanctuary – for young mutants. Scott would be my first student, but with time I could help him control his mutation. That would be a good start."

"I think it's worth a try," said the doctor. "He's a good kid. He deserves better than this," he said, indicating the room around him. "Let me get started on the paperwork. If you're willing, you should be able to take him home with you this evening." With that and a quick pat on Scott's shoulder, the doctor left.

With the doctor gone, Hank asked, "Are you sure about this Charles?"

Charles glanced at Scott, and then turned back to Hank, "Absolutely not. But I can't leave him here. We wanted to help young mutants, Hank. And here's a young mutant who needs our help." With that, Charles reached out a hand, placing it on Scott's knee. When Scott turned in his direction, Charles sent "Everything will be okay." And he knew that, somehow, it would be.


	2. Chapter 2

Several hours later, Charles and Hank sat alone in the lobby. Hank absentmindedly flipped through a magazine. Charles sipped his coffee and grimaced. Rosanne had brought them each a cup of coffee before heading home for the night, but that had been over an hour ago and the once-scalding coffee was now ice cold. The sun was starting to set outside the window. They had been at the Center for nearly twelve hours. Scott had been cleared to return with them to New York. Upstairs, Dr. Glendale was helping him gather his things.

Just as Hank closed his magazine with a sigh, Dr. Glendale appeared, guiding Scott in front of him. Scott held a small duffle bag in one hand and his bear in the other.

"He doesn't have much," said Dr. Glendale apologetically. "He'll probably need some new clothing, toiletries, that sort of thing."

"That's no problem," said Charles. "We'll make sure he gets everything he needs."

"I can't thank you enough," said the doctor. With his hand on Scott's shoulder, he followed Hank and Charles out of the building and to their car. Once there, he helped Scott into the backseat and buckled his seat belt. Squeezing Scott's shoulder one last time, he whispered, "Good luck Scott," before shutting the car door. He shook Hank and Charles's hands one last time, asking them to keep him updated. Then he watched them pull down the driveway and disappear down the road.

Charles glanced back at Scott as they drove. The boy was quiet and apparently calm, but he held his bag on his lap and his bear close to his chest. About half an hour later, they pulled into a small airplane hangar outside of Omaha. A man in a captain's uniform stood waiting for them. A hundred yards away, Charles's private jet sat ready for takeoff. As soon as they pulled in, the Captain approached.

"Good evening, Sir," he said to Charles.

"Captain," Charles nodded, as he rolled down the window. "I'm sorry we're so late. Things took a bit longer than expected."

"No problem at all, Sir. We're ready when you are." With that, he headed back to the plane. Once out of the car and into his wheelchair, Charles turned back, hiding his smile as Hank struggled to get Scott unbuckled and out of the car, swearing under his breath as he did so.

Finally, Scott stepped out onto the tarmac, his things held tightly to him. He rocked from one foot to the other, fidgeting nervously. Charles could sense his anxiety. Hank pushed Charles to the plane, Scott gripping his sleeve. A moveable staircase was in place leading up to the plane's door.

"Better get Scott on board first," Charles said. Hank nodded. Scott had already found the staircase. Curious, he ran his hands over the metal handrail. With his foot, he felt the first step, then the second, then froze. Suddenly, he backed up, a panicked look on his face. He crashed into Hank. Hank tried to steady him, but Scott lurched out of his grip, falling to the ground and scraping his hands and knees on the pavement.

"Scott, it's alright," Charles sent, surprised by the reaction.

Doing the only thing he could think of, Hank picked the boy up, throwing him over his shoulder and carrying him up the stairs and onto the plane. Scott thrashed violently in Hank's grip. He was making sounds – the first sounds Hank had heard from him. There were no words, just noise, like an angry hum that got louder the further they went. Finally, Hank managed to get Scott buckled into the nearest seat. By the time he returned with Charles, Scott was pulling at the seat restraints, sobbing uncontrollably.

"I guess he's not a fan of flying," Hank said.

"Perhaps we should have guessed as much," said Charles, feeling helpless as he watched Scott thrash around desperately a few feet away. Soon, Scott managed to unfasten his seatbelt, and tried to stand. Hank had to wrestle him back into the seat. Just as Hank was re-buckling the seatbelt, one of Scott's sobs turned into something more, and he vomited all over Hank's hands, as well as his own shirt and pants. Charles would have laughed at the look on Hank's face, if he hadn't been so concerned for Scott.

Being sick seemed to shock Scott into silence. His face was red and tear-streaked, and he gripped the handlebars so hard that his knuckles were white, but at least he was still and quiet. The plane had started moving down the runway. Hank returned from washing his hands and buckled himself in just in time for takeoff.

They flew higher and higher into the sky. The panic radiating from Scott's mind was persistent; Charles tried to send calming vibes his way; over and over he sent, "it's alright, Scott . . . it will be alright."

Once they reached final altitude and it was safe to move around, Hank returned to Scott's side. He dug through Scott's small duffle bag in search of a clean t-shirt. Within seconds, he found a torn white t-shirt almost identical to the one Scott was wearing. He helped Scott unbuckle his seatbelt and stand. Scott was shaky on his feet and had to grab onto Hank's arm to steady himself.

Hank handed him the clean shirt. Scott gratefully took it and pulled his soiled shirt up and over his head, careful not to displace the bandage covering his eyes. Charles watched as he slid the clean t-shirt on. Charles frowned as he counted each of Scott's ribs, and when Scott turned, each knob of his spine. He could also see a multitude of faded scars and burns, evidence of the abuse Scott had endured.

Once he had changed, Scott began to explore the plane. Though he still jumped at every sound, he had become considerably calmer. He felt his way around each seat. The jet was quite spacious; the seats were large and leather, and organized in a non-traditional way so that passengers could sit facing each other, or at one of many tables.

Finally, Scott reached Charles's chair. He paused, reaching out to touch Charles's shoulder briefly. When he found the seat across from Charles empty, he sat. Charles and Hank's eyes met, and they smiled slightly.

As the plane started its descent into Westchester County, Scott gripped Hank's arm hard and didn't let go until they landed safely. Hank watched him warily, as if he expected to be thrown up on a second time. On the ground, a driver was waiting for them. Charles could sense Scott's relief when his feet hit solid ground.

The car ride back to the mansion was quiet. It had been a long day for everyone and indeed, by the time they pulled into the driveway, Scott was slumped against the car door, fast asleep. Hank had to shake him slightly to wake him.

Hank unlocked the front door of the mansion and guided Scott inside. Gripping the frame of the doorway, Scott stepped over threshold. He took a few steps inside and then paused as if taking it all in.

Watching from behind, the Professor smiled and sent, "Welcome home, Scott."


	3. Chapter 3

Charles woke the next morning feeling quite groggy and with the distinct feeling that he had forgotten something. The bright sunlight shining through the bedroom window told him it was already late morning. He sat for a moment staring blankly at the wall in front of him before the previous day came back to him. Scott. He quickly maneuvered from his bed to his wheelchair feeling slightly guilty for having left Hank to deal with the boy alone. Half an hour later – showered, dressed, and clean-shaven – he made his way to kitchen.

Charles was surprised to find Hank sitting alone at the breakfast table, still in his pajamas, a half-eaten bowl of cereal in front of him.

"Good morning, Hank," said Charles. Hank looked up, grunting in response.

"Scott still in bed?"

Another grunt.

Charles sighed, grabbing the cereal box in front of him and pouring himself a bowl. The two men ate in silence. As he ate, he wondered for the millionth time if he had done the right thing in bringing Scott to New York. Yesterday, he had been so sure that Scott belonged here; leaving him in Nebraska seemed out of the question. Now, he wasn't so sure. After all, what did he or Hank know about raising a teenager? Hank was barely more than a teenager himself.

"Hank," Charles said, making Hank jump slightly, "I'd like to start analyzing Scott's mutation as soon as possible. Could we start this afternoon?"

"Of course, if you'd like," said Hank, "but are you sure he's ready? I just mean . . . he just got here. Maybe it would be better to let him settle in a bit before dragging him downstairs and turning him into some sort of lab rat."

"He won't be a lab rat, Hank. If we could help him to control his mutation, give him back his sight . . . think how much more comfortable he would be here. There's no point putting it off."

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Meanwhile down the hall, Scott Summers awoke with a start. He sensed at once that he was in an unfamiliar place. He frantically felt for his surroundings finding the too soft sheets, then the fluffy down comforter, and finally the solid oak headboard behind him. Recalling the last twenty-four hours, he calmed slightly: he had been removed from the hospital, flown across the country, and brought . . . here. He had no idea where here was. Or who the two men were who had come to collect him. Or why they wanted him, for that matter.

The man in the wheelchair had spoken to him, but not as normal people do. Scott could hear him more clearly than he had heard anything before; it was as if the voice came from within his mind. At first, Scott wondered if he were imagining it. A month or two ago, he would have been convinced that was the case, but now, well, compared to laser-shooting eyes, a telepath in a wheelchair seemed almost ordinary. Scott didn't particularly enjoy the strange sensation, but he was so desperate for communication, so eager to know what was going on around him, that he tolerated it.

Slowly Scott stood from the bed, double-checking the bandage covering his eyes to be sure it was still in place across his face. Curious, he began to explore the room. A small night table sat beside the bed, a lamp and alarm clock on it. Next he found the bathroom – his own bathroom! – with a shower and a stack of fluffy towels on a shelf. It had been so long since he had had a nice shower, he considered stopping to take one right then, but decided against it. Across from the bed were two large windows which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be doors. Cautiously, Scott turned one of the doorknobs and pushed the door open. He stepped out onto a small balcony. The morning sun was warm on his face.

After several minutes, the growling from his empty stomach made Scott turn back inside. He found the bedroom door and hesitantly took a step out into the hallway; they had arrived so late the night before that Hank and Charles hadn't bothered to show Scott around. They had simply led him to the nearest bedroom. Scott took a deep breath and slowly made his way down the hallway, hand brushing against the wall as he went.

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"I understand Charles and you're probably right," said Hank, "but he's absolutely terrified of his powers. He almost flew through a wall because my hand touched that bandage!

"Yes, but that's the point. We have to teach him that his powers are a gift, not something to be feared." Just as Charles finished this thought, a loud CRASH down the hallway, caused both men to jump and turn in their seats.

"Scott!" said Charles. The two men hurried to the kitchen door and down the hallway.

They found Scott crouching in front of a small table lining the hallway wall where a glass vase had sat moments before. That same vase now lay in pieces on the floor. Scott was trying frantically to clean up the mess, gathering the glass shards in his hands. Hank grabbed Scott's arm, trying to move him away from the broken glass. At the unexpected contact, Scott pulled away, backing into the wall and sinking to the ground. Charles could sense his fear.

"It's okay, Scott," he sent. "It's just an old vase. And an ugly one at that. Nothing valuable." He glanced at the boy. A small stream of blood ran from the center of Scott's palm where a piece of glass had broken the skin. Blood trickled from the bottom of his right foot, too.

"Hank, do mind grabbing a broom?" Charles asked. "Hank?"

When he still didn't get a response, Charles turned to look back at Hank, but Hank hadn't seemed to have heard him. Instead, he was focused entirely on Scott. Charles followed his eyes, curious to see what had caught Hank's attention.

Scott hadn't moved from his spot against the wall, but he had formed a fist with his right hand and was moving it over his chest in small circles.

"What is he doing?" Charles asked.

"I think he's signing."

Charles focused more closely on Scott's thoughts. A single thought emerged above the fear and confusion: "I'm sorry."

"He's saying that he's sorry," said Charles.

"How do you know that?" asked Hank, surprised. "You speak sign language?"

"No, but I do read minds," said Charles with a smile.


	4. Chapter 4

Learning that Scott signed only strengthened Charles's resolve to give him back his sight. He was determined to teach Scott to control his power, whatever it took. Admittedly, his motives were somewhat selfish; he wanted to get to know the small, uncertain boy with whom he shared his home. First, he needed to be able to communicate with him. Sure, he could speak to Scott telepathically, but each time he entered Scott's mind he sensed the boy's discomfort. Scott tolerated the intrusion, but only because he had no choice. Charles wanted to give him that choice.

The shattered vase had left Scott so shaken that Charles and Hank agreed to wait another day before asking him to show off his power – something they were sure would terrify him. The next morning, however, Charles wasted no time in escorting Scott below ground to an old bomb shelter built by his stepfather decades before. They found Hank fussing over an assortment of elaborate equipment already set up in the long, tunnel-like room. When Hank saw them enter, he made one final adjustment then hurried over to them; he could barely hide the excitement on his face.

Once Hank had joined them, Charles turned to Scott.

"Scott, I'm sure you've been wondering why exactly we brought you to New York," he sent. He paused, and then continued, "The blasts emitted from your eyes are the result of a genetic mutation. A similar mutation allows me to communicate with you telepathically." He paused again, gauging Scott's reaction.

Finding Scott's expression unchanged, he added, "I know that your mutation may seem frightening, but Hank and I believe that with a little practice, you can learn to control it. We will do whatever we can to help you, but in order to do that, we need to learn a little bit more about the blasts."

Charles could sense Scott's hesitancy as he began to realize what the two men wanted. But Charles had anticipated Scott's apprehension.

"We are in a safe place, Scott. There is nothing to destroy and no one to hurt here," he sent. Unconvinced, Scott took a step back, hanging his head and wrapping his arms tightly across his chest.

"Don't let your mutation control you," Charles continued. "Trust us. Unless you take this leap of faith, you will spend the rest of your life hiding behind that bandage, missing out on your life. I know you don't want that."

When Scott didn't respond, Charles delved ever so slightly into Scott's mind: No, Scott didn't want to spend his life hiding, but he was too afraid to hope for anything more.

"Scott, let us help you," he tried one more time. He watched Scott closely. Finally, after several moments, Scott lifted his head ever so slightly, slowly unfolded his arms, and let out the tiniest of sighs.

Smiling, Charles nodded to Hank who, until then, had watched the silent exchange with curiosity. Hank took a step towards Scott. He gently touched Scott's shoulders, turning him to face the multitude of meters and machines lined up against the far wall of the room. Slowly, he reached up to remove Scott's bandage. He was surprised when Scott did not resist. Underneath the bandage, Scott's eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Hank stepped to the side.

"Trust us," Charles sent again.

Scott gritted his teeth and opened his eyes to a blaze of red.

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Having seen Scott's power firsthand, Hank became obsessed with analyzing the optic blasts. Other projects were forgotten and, aside from meals, he was rarely seen outside the lab. Initially, Charles had hoped that Scott could learn to control his gift naturally, but after several sessions with Charles acting as coach and cheerleader, and Scott becoming increasingly frustrated, Charles was forced to concede that what he was hoping for might, in fact, be impossible. He instructed Hank to spare no effort or expense in finding an alternative means that would allow Scott to control his power.

The months slowly passed; summer turned to fall. As the leaves on the trees changed, Scott grew more and more comfortable in his new home – and with his new "family". He navigated the hallways with little trouble, and soon began exploring the grounds. The first couple times he did this, Charles watched from the window like a nervous, first-time father. His worry grew each time Scott returned home with a new bruise on his leg or a scrape on his knee. Scott hated when Charles fussed over him, and Hank had to remind Charles on several occasions that Scott was a teenager, not a toddler, and that the boy had experienced far worse than a few bruises and a scraped knee.

Because Charles tended to sleep late, Scott spent his mornings with Hank. They ate breakfast in companionable silence; they shared a fondness for sugary cereals and pop tarts that Charles simply could not understand. As time went on, Scott took more of an interest in Hank and his work. One morning, Hank decided to bring Scott down to the labs with him. Hank worked quietly while Scott explored, gently touching each machine and vial. Finally, he grew bored and sat on the stool beside Hank. Hank enjoyed Scott's quiet company while he worked, and from that day on Scott often followed Hank to the lab.

A few days before Halloween, Hank smiled with excitement as he lifted a smooth slab of reddish rock from the newly arrived box in front of him: ruby quartz. This stone was the key to controlling Scott's mutation, he was sure of it. And he was determined to test his theory. Scott was sitting on the stool beside him, absentmindedly tapping a pencil against the counter.

"Scott," he said, excitedly grabbing the boy's shoulder and shaking it, "this could be it!" Sensing Hank's excitement, Scott turned in Hank's direction with an inquisitive glance. Hank took Scott's hands in his, gently placing the heavy rock inside them. Scott took it, and flipped it over in his hands before turning back to Hank with the same curious expression. Hank sighed. Sometimes he wished he were a telepath like Charles. That would make this so much easier.

Instead, Hank removed the rock from Scott's hands and took his arm, pulling him up off of the stool, and leading him down the hallway, towards the bomb shelter. Scott immediately recognized the cool, moist air of the shelter and he pulled back slightly from Hank's gentle grip. Undeterred, Hank took his shoulders instead, leading him to the center of the room. He returned the stone to Scott, and then guided Scott's hand up until Scott held the stone in front of his right eye, a few inches from his face. Finally, Hank brought his hand to the bandage and paused, giving Scott the chance to object if he wanted to. But morning meals and days spent in the lab were apparently enough to earn Scott's trust. He nodded slightly, giving Hank the okay to remove the bandage.

Once the bandage was off and Hank had stepped aside, Scott raised the stone to his right eye as Hank had instructed. Using his free hand to cover his left eye, Scott opened his right. Just as before, he was greeted with a brilliant burst of red, but this time it lasted only a few seconds before vanishing into the dark rock in front of him. Scott was awestruck, watching the small stone in front of him absorb the incredible power of the blasts as if they were nothing more than smoke. He felt Hank's hand on his shoulder, and though he couldn't see it, he was sure Hank was smiling. Finally, he closed his eyes. Hank helped him to re-secure the bandage, and then led him upstairs, excited to tell Charles what they had discovered.

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Dinner that night was an upbeat affair. Pleased and unusually animated, Hank rambled on and on about his latest discovery. Charles smiled at the news that Scott was close to seeing again. While Hank and Charles chatted amiably, Scott was struck by a strange realization: Hank had spent day after day, hour after hour working in the lab for _him_. So that he could control his power. So that he could see again. The thought boggled his mind and overwhelmed him so much so that he stood from the table and retreated to his bedroom, leaving Charles and Hank confused and concerned.

Later that night, before he went to bed, Charles rolled down the hallway to check on Scott. He peered inside the bedroom expecting to see Scott on the bed, but instead finding him sitting cross-legged on the floor across from him, back straight against the wall. Scott looked up as Charles entered the room, feeling the wheels move on the wooden floor.

"Everything alright, Scott?" Charles sent.

Scott nodded slightly. Charles watched him for a few seconds. Scott held his old dirty bear in his hands and was picking at a loose thread on the bear's arm. Scott's time at the mansion had been good for him; he looked healthier than when he had arrived at the end of the summer. He had put on some weight and seemed to grow an inch a day.

"Come here," Charles sent.

Slowly Scott stood from the floor and sulked over to Charles until he stood directly in front of him. Charles put a hand on Scott's arm, then took the bear gently from his hands.

"Does he have a name?" he asked. Scott shook his head.

"Well, he really needs a bath," he sent with a smile. Scott's expression didn't change. Charles sighed. He would give anything to see the boy smile, he thought.

Handing the bear back, he sent, "I know these last few months have been hard. These last few _years_ have been hard," he corrected himself. "But things are going to get better very soon. And we're very glad to have you here, Scott."

With a brief pat on Scott's shoulder he rolled to the door, whispering "goodnight, Scott" as he left.


	5. Chapter 5

"Good morning, Hank."

"Charles." Hank nodded from his spot at the breakfast table. Outside the window, dark clouds gathered and the few leaves left on the trees held on for dear life in the growing wind. Far away thunder quietly rumbled. The storm had woken Charles earlier than usual.

"It's been days since I've seen you," said Charles, helping himself to a cup of tea.

"I've been busy. Trying to get the ruby quartz to the perfect thickness; heavy enough to block the blasts, but transparent enough to see through. I'm getting close. May have something for Scott to try by the end of the week."

"That's great news," said Charles. "I'll be happy when this is finished. For Scott and for you. You've been working hard, Hank. You've done well."

Embarrassed by the praise, Hank returned his focus to the cereal bowl in front of him. For a few moments, the two men sat in silence.

"I received an interesting phone call last night," said Charles, sipping his tea.

"Yeah, from who?" asked Hank, looking up.

"A concerned father from upstate. He believes his teenage daughter is a mutant."

". . . And he wants us to take her off his hands?" asked Hank, a hint of derision in his voice.

"I don't know exactly what he wants. I've agreed to meet with him. Nothing more."

Scott entered the kitchen just then, groggy and stumbling. He found Charles' wheelchair first, and then his own chair beside it. After sitting, he reached to his left, lightly touching Hank's arm. Satisfied to find Hank at the table, too, he reached instead for the cereal box in front of him. Just as he went for his first bite of cereal, a loud clap of thunder shook the house, causing Scott to jump and drop his spoon in surprise.

"It's just thunder, Scott. Nothing to worry about," sent Charles as Hank picked the soiled spoon up from the floor. Scott relaxed slightly.

"Hank, why don't you take a break from the lab today. It's been ages since we've played a game of chess. What do you say?"

"I really want to finish up those lenses . . ."

"If you're afraid of losing, just say so," Charles interrupted.

"Fine," said Hank grudgingly. "One game."

Half an hour later, Charles and Hank sat opposite each other in the lounge, an antique chessboard between them. The room was dark; the storm raged on outside and the few lamps lighting the room did little to brighten it. While Hank pondered his next move, Charles watched Scott.

Scott had discovered the bookshelves lining the lounge walls; hundreds of books filled each row. Scott ran his fingertips along the spines, occasionally pulling a book out to inspect it.

"Do you like to read?" Charles sent to Scott. Scott paused, and then shrugged noncommittally. He put the book down, then came to sit next to Hank on the couch. Hank slid his bishop diagonally across the board, taking Charles' knight.

As Charles made his move, Scott shifted closer to Hank and shivered. Hank absentmindedly grabbed the blanket beside him and laid it over Scott. Scott gratefully accepted it, snuggling up to Hank's side. Charles smiled at the sight. It warmed his heart to see how fond Scott had become of Hank. It was obvious in the way he followed the man around, and when he wasn't there, sought him out. Hank seemed oblivious to this, though he obviously cared for the boy.

"Check mate!" said Hank triumphantly, snapping Charles out of his thoughts.

"So it is," said Charles. "Well done, Hank. You know what this means – we'll have to have rematch." Hank rolled his eyes. Charles could not stand to lose at chess; he would play until he won.

Charles made a quick trip to the kitchen for a fresh cup of tea, but when he returned a few minutes later, he found Hank fast asleep, lightly snoring. Scott was asleep beside him, his head resting on Hank's shoulder. Charles sighed. He grabbed a spare blanket from the cupboard, and draped it over Hank. The storm had finally died down outside, but there was still a chill in the air. Not a bad time for a nap, he thought, as he made his way to his own bed.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

A few days later, Charles, Hank, and Scott gathered in the basement bomb shelter. Hank had managed to manufacture a pair of ruby quartz glasses that he was confident would control Scott's power. Hank and Charles were beyond excited. Scott seemed nervous.

Scott obediently stood where Hank indicated, by now used to the drill. He held still has Hank removed his bandage, and stood with his eyes closed. Hank handed him the glasses. Scott turned them over in his hands, inspecting them. They felt like run-of-the-mill sunglasses, nothing special. Slowly he raised them to his eyes and put them on. They were a bit loose; he had to push them back up his nose when they slipped down.

"We can fix that," said Hank, more to himself than to anyone else. "Just need a little tightening." Hank gave Scott's shoulder a squeeze and stepped to the side, indicating that Scott could open his eyes when ready.

Holding the frames tightly to his face, Scott opened his eyes. The world seemed to stand still: First, he was greeted by brilliant red. This he was used to, but a moment later total redness gave way to a fuzzy image. He squinted. His eyes were not used to the light; even the dim light of the bomb shelter was too much.

As the seconds passed and his vision cleared, he saw the tunnel before him – the windowless brick walls and the concrete floors. He looked down at his own hands and feet; he turned his hands over and wiggled his toes, watching them move.

Slowly he turned. Charles sat behind him, hands in his lap and patiently waiting. Scott simply stared at the man he knew, but had never seen. Charles was younger than he had expected. In a wheelchair, yes, but oozing strength and energy. Charles gave him a kind smile and held out his hand, gesturing for Scott to come closer. As Scott approached, a tiny smile appeared on his face to match Charles'. It grew slowly, finally becoming a full on grin. Charles' heart almost burst with happiness.

"You look good," he managed to say.

For the first time, Scott did not hear Charles' voice in his head. Rather, he read the words on his lips. And that's when it hit him: he could see. In red, no doubt, but he could see. He froze, the smile on his face falling. Before he could stop himself, he was sobbing, his eyes filling with tears. Charles was surprised by the response, but responded in kind, taking Scott's hand in his.

"What's wrong?" asked Hank. He had been watching the exchange, first with excitement, now with concern.

"He's just a bit overwhelmed, I think."

"Oh," said Hank awkwardly. He had never been particularly good with emotions. Better to let Charles deal with it, he thought.

"I'm going to . . . uh . . . grab some tools so I can tighten those glasses."

Just then, Scott seemed to remember Hank. He turned just in time to see Hank reach the doorway. He ran after him, grabbing Hank's sleeve from behind and pulling. Hank turned, surprised to see Scott's tear-stained face staring up at him.

"Hey," Hank said awkwardly. He smiled slightly; the glasses were working. For a moment, Scott and Hank stared at each other, equally at a loss. Then, suddenly, Scott launched himself forward, wrapping his arms around Hank in a fierce hug. He could not remember the last time he had hugged someone like this. Or hugged anyone at all, for that matter. But it felt right.

Hank, however, stood ramrod straight, arms at his sides, unsure how to react. He glanced helplessly at Charles, who had a big smile on his face. Charles gave him an encouraging nod. Carefully, Hank put his arms around Scott, returning the hug. When they pulled apart a few seconds later, Charles had a hard time telling who looked more uncomfortable. He sighed in exasperation.

"Let's go find those tools," he said.

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The rest of the day went quickly. Scott spent the afternoon re-learning the lay of the mansion – this time with his eyes. He seemed mesmerized by everything. Every piece of furniture, every painting, the view from each window was a hundred times more beautiful than he had imagined.

It was nearing midnight as Charles made his way to the kitchen. It had been an exciting day and sleep eluded him. As he made his way down the hallway, he was surprised to see a dim light coming from the lounge. He must have forgotten to turn it off, he thought.

As he reached the doorway, he stopped. Poking out from behind an antique armchair, was a pair of small feet. Entering the room further, he found Scott lying on his stomach, underneath a lamp. He wore his new glasses. He held an open book in his hands and was reading, completely absorbed in whichever book he had chosen.

As Charles moved closer, however, Scott felt the movement and jumped up in surprise. He looked up, a guilty look on his face. Charles held up his hands.

"I'm sorry, Scott. I didn't mean to startle you," said Charles. "You can keep reading. I just didn't expect to find anyone else up. Trouble sleeping?" Scott shook his head and glanced down at the book in his hands. Charles understood. Scott had finally gotten his eyes back, and he wanted to use them.

"What are you reading?" asked Charles curiously. Scott handed him the book.

"The Hobbit? A great book," he said. "Enjoy it." He handed the book back to Scott. "And don't stay up too late," he said as he rolled through the doorway. "We have a busy day tomorrow."


	6. Chapter 6

Charles sat in front of the large standing mirror in the corner of his bedroom, his reflection gazing back at him. He was dressed in gray slacks and a collared shirt, a black tie draped loosely around his neck. His suit jacket was spread out on the bed beside him. The sun was shining outside; it had returned with a vengeance after yesterday's storm. The trees, however, had lost most of their leaves – a sure sign that winter was coming.

Scott stood just outside the bedroom door. Slowly, he peeked around the doorframe, spotting Charles in the corner, his back to the door. Charles smiled, sensing Scott's presence.

"You can come in if you like," he sent without turning around. Scott jumped slightly at having been caught, but quickly recovered and slowly made his way into the room. He gave the room a once over. Though he'd been at the mansion nearly five months now, he had never been in Charles' room.

It was bit messier than he expected. Clothes were strewn about on the floor. The large wooden desk was littered with papers and old texts. Scott paused for a moment to look at a framed photo on the top shelf – a man and woman in black and white.

"Glasses still working well?" Charles asked. Scott turned and nodded, crossing the room to stand at Charles' side. He watched as Charles took both ends of his tie in his hands, wrapping one end over and around the other until he ended up with a slightly lop-sided knot. Charles examined himself in the mirror. Dissatisfied, he undid the tie and tried again.

Finally happy, he turned to face Scott. He looked him over, noting that the jeans he had bought for Scott just a few months ago were already looking a bit short. It didn't surprise him – the boy seemed to grow a foot a day.

"We'll have to take you shopping soon," he sent. "You're growing so fast. And you'll need some warmer clothes for the winter." Scott shoved his hands in his pockets, suddenly uncomfortable. He hated that Charles spent money on him when he had no way to repay him. He'd already given him a home and three meals a day – not to mention his sight back. And today he and Hank were taking Scott to the hospital to have his hearing tested and for him to be fitted with hearing aids.

Charles felt Scott's discomfort and was about to respond when Hank appeared at the door, jacket and shoes on and car keys in hand:

"Hey, guys if we don't leave soon we're going to be late for Scott's appointment."

"You're absolutely right," said Charles, grabbing his suit jacket from the bed and sliding it on.

"Did somebody die? You look like you're going to a funeral," Hank said with a small smile.

"No, nobody died Hank," Charles replied stiffly. "I have that appointment this afternoon," he said with a meaningful glance, "and I wanted to look nice. Too much? Should I change?"

"NO," Hank said with a bit too much force. "You look absolutely dashing. Let's go."

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Twenty minutes later, Hank pulled into the crowded hospital parking lot. A large sign read, "Westchester Medical Center". Scott had butterflies in his stomach. He hated to admit it, but he was nervous. Not to have his hearing tested – he'd had it tested often enough as a kid – but to be out of the mansion. It was the first time he had left the house since his arrival.

Charles glanced back at Scott before opening his car door.

"Alright Scott?" he sent. Scott nodded quickly, and got out of the car. "Nothing to worry about," Charles continued as Hank helped him into his wheelchair. "Dr. Brennan is a good friend of mine and a wonderful woman. Her husband and I were roommates at Oxford." Scott smiled slightly, but was not fully convinced.

Inside, they approached the front desk. The lobby was crowded and noisy, which did not help Scott's anxiety. He stuck close to Hank as Hank asked the gentleman behind the desk, "Which way to the audiology department?"

"Take the elevators to the third floor and follow the signs to audiology," he said, pointing to the elevators on their right.

"Thanks," said Hank, leading the way. When they reached the elevators, Hank turned to Scott: "Want to push the button?" he asked, indicating the "up" button in front of him. Both Scott and Charles stared at him.

"What? I thought kids liked to push the button . . ." Hank mumbled awkwardly, reaching out to tap the button himself. Soon they reached the third floor, stepped inside the audiology office, and approached the front desk.

"This is Scott Summers," said Charles. "He has an appointment at ten o'clock."

The woman behind the desk looked at Scott, her eyes lingering for just a moment on his red glasses before saying, "Great. If you could just fill out this paper work, we'll call you when we're ready."

As they waited, Hank flipped through an old _Time _Magazine. Scott stared uncomfortably at his feet. Charles, however, was watching the family seated across from him – a mother with two small children. The mother's hands moved fluently as she signed, the young children responding with equal skill. He watched, wondering if he could ever learn to sign like that until a nurse's voice calling "Scott Summers" brought him back to the present.

"Right this way," said the nurse. Charles, Hank, and Scott followed behind her as she led them through a maze of hallways, finally stopping in front of a small office where a young woman dressed in a white doctor's robe sat behind a desk, scrawling some notes on a pad of paper. She looked up and beamed when she saw Charles.

"Charles!" she said fondly. "It's so lovely to see you." She wrapped him in a hug and kissed his cheek.

Turning, she smiled. "This must be Scott," she said. "I'm Judy Brennan. I'm an audiologist." She signed as she spoke. She held out her hand to Scott. Scott glanced at Charles. When Charles nodded encouragingly, Scott tentatively took her hand.

"And this is my friend, Dr. Hank McCoy," Charles said.

"Wonderful to meet you, Hank" Judy said, shaking his hand. "Please, come in and sit." Hank nudged Scott until he followed Judy into her office and sat in one of the two chairs in front of her desk. Hank sat to his left and Charles to his right.

"Thank you for seeing us on such short notice," Charles said.

"Of course, it's no problem," she said before turning her attention to Scott.

"Scott, I'd like to start by asking you a few a questions. Is that okay? Charles tells me that you sign. Is that true?" Again she signed and spoke. Scott answered both questions with a short nod.

"Excellent. Today we're going to test your hearing. Have you had your hearing checked before?"

Scott shook his right fist up and down a few times, signing "yes".

"And when was that?"

"First, when I was a baby," he signed. "And a few other times, too." Judy interpreted his response for Charles and Hank, before asking, "And what did they find?"

"They said I'm profoundly deaf," he signed.

"Have you ever worn hearing aids?"

"Yes, when I was little."

"Why did you stop wearing them?" she asked. Scott hesitated. He had stopped wearing them because his parents had died; eventually his hearing aid batteries had died and no one at the orphanage had cared enough to replace them.

After a few moments of silence, Charles touched his shoulder: "Scott?"

"I don't remember," Scott signed finally. Charles suspected this wasn't true, but didn't say anything.

"Well, we'll take care of that today," Judy said cheerfully. "As soon as we've tested your hearing, we'll get some hearing aids fitted for you. Sound good?" She looked to Scott, Charles, and Hank in turn for confirmation.

"Great," said Charles. Scott, however, seemed concerned. He sat up a little straighter, and signed quickly to Judy. Charles and Hank turned to Judy.

"He's concerned about the cost," she said in response to their curious looks.

"Scott, you don't need to worry about that," Charles sent, before turning to Judy and saying, "Whatever he needs is fine. The cost is not important."

"See, no problem," she signed to Scott, smiling. "Just one more question, Scott – have you ever had speech therapy?" she asked. Scott nodded shyly. Both Charles and Hank were somewhat surprised; they had never heard him speak.

"How long ago was that?"

"Until I was ten," he signed. Of course, Charles thought. He knew Scott had been ten when his parents were killed, and no orphanage would have paid for speech therapy.

"Are you interested in seeing a speech therapist again?" she asked.

"Of course," said Charles. Scott seemed a bit downtrodden at Charles' quick response. Noticing this, Charles quickly added, "Hank and I will need some signing lessons, too, if you could recommend a teacher – preferably one that makes house calls."

"Yes," she said smiling. "I can recommend some great American Sign Language instructors." Charles glanced at Scott. Scott stared back at him, his expression difficult to read – a mixture of surprise, awe, and gratitude.

Soon Scott's hearing tests were complete. He and Hank headed down the hall to have his new hearing aids fitted by a hearing aid specialist, while Charles stayed behind with Judy.

"Judy, thank you again."

"Anything for you Charles," she said with a grin. "I think it's wonderful what you are doing for Scott. And great that you've decided to learn to sign. Not all parents do, but it makes all the difference. Even if he learns to speak, ASL will always be his first language."

"I can't imagine a parent not learning." Charles paused, and then asked, "Can I ask you a question? Scott said he was 'profoundly' deaf. What exactly does that mean?"

"It means that he has minimal hearing," Judy replied. "With proper hearing aids, he will be able to hear some sounds, maybe a voice - though probably not clearly enough to understand speech. Most people with that level of hearing loss use a combination of hearing aids, lip reading, and signing to communicate."

Just then, Hank and Scott appeared outside the door, hearing aids in hand. After saying their goodbyes, they made their way back to their car.

Half an hour later, Hank pulled off the highway, turning into a picture perfect residential neighborhood. Scott watched house after house pass by, each with a well-manicured lawn and picture-perfect garden. Finally, Hank slowed down, coming to a stop in front of a small cape. A man in a suit and tie stood just inside the front door, as if anxiously awaiting their arrival.

As Hank helped Charles out of the car, Scott peered up at the house from his spot in the backseat. He could just make out a face in the upstairs window. A girl with bright red hair. She was watching them with an odd expression. Though it was hard to tell from so far away, Scott thought she looked kind of sad.

The man in the suit greeted Charles at the door. Once Charles was inside, Hank returned to the car. Scott looked up at the window one more time, but the girl was gone. As they pulled away, he glanced at the mailbox in front of the house: GREY was written in big, black letters.

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Charles took a cab home later that afternoon and found Hank sitting in the living room watching TV. When Charles entered, Hank sat up slightly.

"How'd it go?"

"She's incredible," he said. "Telekinetic and telepathic. Having trouble controlling her powers, but I can tell she's going to be a very powerful mutant."

"Are we getting a new student then?" Hank asked.

"Not at the moment. Her father wants her to stay at home. I'll meet with her here a couple times a week for now. We'll see where that leads." Hank nodded.

"Where's Scott?" Charles asked, just noticing his absence.

"In his room, I think," said Hank. "He's been a bit moody since we got home."

Charles nodded, and headed down the hallway. Hank was right – Scott was in his room, sitting cross-legged on his bed. He held one of his new hearing aids in his hand, absentmindedly turning it over in his fingers. He didn't notice Charles until he was right beside him.

"How are they working?" Charles sent. Scott shrugged. Charles delved ever so slightly into his mind, combing through his thoughts. There was one overriding feeling – guilt. _I'm a burden_.

"You're not a burden, Scott," Charles sent without thinking. Scott looked up quickly. Realizing his mistake, Charles said quickly, "I'm sorry, Scott. I wouldn't normally read your mind, but I'm worried about you."

Scott let out a small sigh. Charles touched his arm lightly, pleased when Scott didn't flinch away. He wondered when Scott had stopped flinching at his touch.

"Soon, I'll have learned to sign," he said with a smile. "And I won't need to read your mind."

Scott looked up. He was silent for a moment. Then, he brought his finger tips to his mouth, and let his hand drop. As he signed, he said "Thank you." It was barely a whisper, but Charles understood.

"Thank you?" Charles repeated. He tried the sign himself, and then said proudly, "My first sign!"

They both smiled.

After a few moments of silence, Charles sent, "You deserve a good home, Scott. You deserve three meals a day, and clothing that fits you, and a family that loves you." He paused. "That's what we are now – a family. Families take care of each other. You'll never have to thank me for that."


	7. Chapter 7

Thanksgiving was just a few days away. Hank was determined to have a true Thanksgiving feast, with all the traditional dishes. His mother, Edna, was even flying in from Illinois. While Charles seemed indifferent to the affair (he was happy to host as long as Hank and Edna handled the cooking), Scott was secretly excited; he could hardly remember having a "normal" Thanksgiving. He was also curious to meet Hank's mother – though he was generally opposed to strangers, Hank was so excited for her visit that Scott could not bring himself to dread her arrival.

At the moment, Scott was roaming the hallways completely and utterly bored. Hank had disappeared to the labs after breakfast. Charles had locked himself in his office and had not emerged for what seemed like hours.

Scott paused at the first window he came to and leaned against the frosty window pane. He thought briefly of exploring the grounds, but it was late fall now and the cold weather was unappealing. He sighed, fog forming on the window glass. He stood resignedly, heading to the library in search of a book and a warm fireplace.

He strolled into the foyer, but stopped suddenly: the Professor's door was opening in front of him, revealing a teenage girl, tall and thin. A cardigan sweater was draped over her shoulders, her arms crossed shyly in front of her. He recognized her immediately; he had seen her face before, in the upstairs window of the house where they had left Charles weeks before. Scott ducked behind a nearby column so as not to be seen.

Slowly, Scott peaked out from his hiding spot. The Professor had followed the girl out of his office. They were talking, but with their backs turned towards him, Scott could not read their lips. Finally, the Professor led the teen to the front door and smiling kindly, escorted her out. Scott took this opportunity to dash away unseen; he was sure that the Professor would have sensed his presence and was eager to avoid a lecture on eavesdropping.

Books now forgotten, Scott descended the stairs to the basement in hopes of finding Hank. He opened the door to the lab, unsurprised to find Hank dressed in his typical white lab coat, eyes glued to a microscope. Hank jumped slightly when Scott sat on the stool beside him, causing it to creak loudly. He held his finger up, asking Scott for a moment, before furiously scribbling a few hurried words into his tattered notebook. Finally, he looked up and smiled.

"Scott, where have you been all morning?" he signed. Hank's signing had improved dramatically in just a few weeks, his genius IQ coming in handy. Between Hank's passable ASL, Scott's lip-reading skills and broken speech, and the occasional fingerspelling, they were able to hold a decent conversation.

"Fine," returned Scott, clearly distracted. Hank raised his eyebrows. It was clear that Scott had a question, but was hesitant to ask.

"What is it Scott? Out with it."

"I was just wondering . . ." Scott began hesitantly. "The Professor was meeting with a girl this morning. Who is she?"

"Oh," said Hank. Scott could tell Hank was deciding how much to tell.

"Her name is Jean. She's a mutant, like us. The Professor is helping her to develop and control her mutation."

"Is she going to live here?" Scott asked.

"No. Not any time soon anyways." Hank returned to his microscope. A few moments later, Scott touched him on the shoulder.

"What is her mutation?" he asked.

"She's . . ." he paused to think before slowly fingerspelling, " c. She can move things with her mind," he clarified at Scott's confused face. "She also has some telepathic abilities, like Charles."

Again Hank returned to his microscope, pausing every few moments to jot down a note or two in his notebook. Soon he felt Scott's eyes on him and looked up. Scott was staring right at him, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Grinning, Hank asked, "Did you have another question?" Scott looked down at his lap, suddenly nervous. Hank poked his shoulder.

"Go ahead Scott. What is it?" Hank pushed.

"Hank . . . what is your mutation?" Scott asked, looking down again. When he chanced at glance at Hank, he found him seemingly surprised by the question, but not angry.

"Well, I'm really smart," signed Hank. "Certified genius actually." He shrugged as if embarrassed by the admission.

"So that's your mutation? You're really smart."

"Yeah." Hank nodded slowly. "And some other stuff," he added quietly as he turned back to his work. But Scott was watching him closely and had not missed a beat.

"What kind of other stuff?" he asked.

"I'm . . . sort of . . . blue," he said, watching Scott's face.

"Blue? Like sad?" Hank sighed.

"No, Scott. Blue like actually blue." Scott looked confused.

"But you're _not _blue." Hank set down his pencil, and turned on his stool to face Scott.

"A few years ago, I designed a serum that suppresses my mutation. It keeps me looking like this," he explained. Hank turned back to his desk, but was still watching Scott who looked unsatisfied.

"But . . ." said Scott slowly, "you and the Professor . . . you said that our mutations are a gift, not something to be afraid of. If that's true, why would you want to hide yours? We wouldn't care what you look like . . ." Scott paused as he noticed Hank's expression. Hank's posture was stiff on his stool and his face was oddly detached. He met Scott's eyes for just a moment before turning back to his work. But Scott had seen the hurt in his eyes and instantly regretted having said anything at all. Scott was just about to apologize when Hank turned towards him again.

Without making eye contact, Hank signed "Scott, why don't you go check on Charles and see what he wants to do for dinner."

Scott nodded and stood. Part of him wanted to stay and fix what he had done, but the other, larger part of him was grateful for an excuse to leave. He fled without another word. At the door, he glanced back at Hank; he was still sitting at the desk, pencil in hand and notebook in front of him, but he wasn't focused on his work. Instead, he stared straight ahead into space.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Dinner that evening was very quiet. Charles made several unsuccessful attempts to get a conversation started, but soon gave up. His signing was nowhere near as good as Hank's and Scott was too caught up in his own guilt to focus on lip-reading. Hank was obviously distracted, too; occasionally he managed a "hmm" or a nod in response to Charles' monologue, but other than that he contributed little. When Scott's plate was clear, he turned to Charles and signed, "May I be excused?"

Charles looked confused, bringing the tips of his right hand fingers to the palm of his left and saying "again."

"He wants to be excused," said Hank. Scott looked over to Hank, but his eyes were already back on his plate.

"Oh. Yes, Scott. Go ahead," he said. "And I would have figured it out myself," he mumbled, more to himself than to Hank. Scott placed his dishes in the sink before hurrying out the door. Charles watched him go before turning on Hank.

"Okay, Hank. What is going on?"

"Nothing is going on . . ." said Hank, looking up and trying, unsuccessfully, to appear taken aback.

"I'm a telepath, Hank. Not that I need to be to tell something's going on with the two of you," said Charles. "I _could_ read your mind, but I'd rather you just tell me what happened."

"Nothing happened, Charles. I was just thinking about something Scott said earlier."

"Yes?" asked Charles impatiently. Hank recounted their conversation in the lab. When he finished, the two men sat in silence for a minute.

"Charles," asked Hank finally, "do you think I'm a coward?" Charles moved closer, placing a hand on Hank's arm.

"No, Hank." He paused, then continued, "There are a lot of ways I could describe you: incredibly intelligent, kind, patient . . . You've been a wonderful friend to me and a great big brother to Scott. You're hardworking and selfless . . . and sometimes a bit overzealous," he added smiling. "But I would never call you a coward." Hank sat, thinking.

"I appreciate that Charles," he said after a moment. "But I'm a hypocrite, if nothing else. How can I tell our future students that they should be proud of their mutations while I hide mine?

"Hank, your mutation presents challenges few of us could comprehend. You have to do what feels best for you. Not what you think anyone else – including Scott or I – thinks is right." With that, Charles rolled out of the room, leaving a pensive Hank behind him.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

The next morning, Scott and Charles sat at the breakfast table. Hank had yet to appear, making Scott uneasy. Charles glanced at the clock on the wall and, as if reading Scott's mind (or perhaps actually reading it), he said, "I wonder where Hank could be. Edna should be here any moment."

Just then, Charles heard footsteps from the hallway and looked up just in time to see Hank shuffle through the kitchen door. But the Hank he saw was not the one he expected; he was at least a foot taller and covered in thick blue fur. Meeting Charles' eyes, he nervously pushed his glasses up his nose and moved towards the table. Charles smiled widely. Scott, however, was focused on his cereal, and had not seen Hank enter.

It wasn't until Hank sat down beside him that Scott looked up. Hank helped himself to cereal as Scott stared, surprise plastered on his face. Within seconds, however, he schooled his expression into a more passive one. Slowly, the corners of his mouth turned up into a smile that grew with each passing second. By the time Hank worked up the courage to look over at him, Scott was beaming as though he had never seen something so wonderful. Hank returned Scott's smile, then went back to his cereal.

Soon their breakfast was interrupted by the sound of a doorbell; Hank's mother had arrived. Charles looked to Hank.

"I'll get the door," he said.

Charles opened the door to a plump woman in her early sixties, with short gray hair and warm eyes. A taxicab was just pulling out of the driveway behind her. As soon as she spotted Charles, she grinned widely.

"Charles," she said, kissing his cheek, "It's so good to see you."

"You, too, Edna."

She glanced behind him. "Where is my son?" she asked. "Not holed up in that lab of his I hope," she said with a chuckle.

"Hank!" called Charles. A moment later, Hank appeared from around the corner, Scott a few steps behind him. Hank looked at his mother timidly, doubt apparent on his face. Scott watched Edna's face closely; he saw just a moment of surprise, but it was quickly replaced with a kind smile.

Edna approached her son, who was now staring determinably at his feet. Standing in front of him, she reached up to hold his face in her hands. Smiling brightly she said, "Hank, you look wonderful."


	8. Chapter 8

The Thanksgiving holiday passed quickly. Edna took over the kitchen straightaway, insisting on preparing three home cooked meals a day for "her" boys (who she insisted were much too thin). Each morning, Scott woke to delightful new scents wafting from the kitchen. Scott loved Hank and Charles, but the mansion felt a bit warmer with Edna there - Edna laughed often, singing and humming cheerfully as she cooked. She taught Scott to make cranberry sauce and apple pies, and he taught her the sign for each ingredient as they went. For once, Hank forgot about his lab work and spent all of his time in the kitchen with Edna. By Thanksgiving Day, even Charles had been put to work peeling the potatoes.

Scott could not say a bad thing about Edna, but that did not stop him from feeling just a bit relieved when she stepped into the cab at the end of the weekend, waving goodbye as she went. He knew that Hank was sad to see her go, but he longed for the quiet house he was used to; someone who rarely spent time with anyone but Hank and Charles could only handle so much excitement. He suspected he was not the only one who felt that way; he had caught Charles once or twice during the weekend slipping quietly away from the festivities to seek a respite in his study.

Early December brought even colder weather and the first snow of the season. Hank apparently loved Christmas and Scott soon learned that he took holiday decorating very seriously. With Scott's help, there was soon garland on every fireplace mantel and a wreath on every window. On one particularly snowy morning, he set out across the grounds – Scott in tow – in search of the perfect Christmas tree. Scott's toes were nearly frozen and his glasses coated with snow by the time Hank finally declared that he had found "the one." Together, they chopped it down and dragged it through the snow, back to the mansion.

The next morning, Scott found the tree standing tall in the lobby and Hank carrying a teetering stack of boxes down from the attic, each filled to the brim with ornaments and lights. While Hank grew merrier with each passing day, Charles seemed to grow more ornery. Scott had barely seen him in the weeks since Thanksgiving. He spent most of his time in his study and turned down Hank's every invitation to get involved in the decorating. Scott worried about his absence and, while helping to decorate the tree, asked Hank about it.

"Where is the Professor?" he asked.

Hank hung an ornament on the tree, then signed, "Probably holed up in his study, or sitting by the fire complaining about the cold. I don't know if you've noticed, but he's a bit of a Scrooge when it comes to Christmas."

"Why?" asked Scott, truly curious.

Hank sighed as he pried open another box of ornaments. "I don't know exactly. I suppose . . . he's lived alone for a long time, hasn't really had a reason to celebrate. Christmas just isn't worth the fuss to him."

Scott nodded as he picked up another ornament. He thought that maybe he understood how the Professor felt. Scott had gladly indulged Hank's Christmas fervor, but the holiday was bittersweet for him. Some of his best childhood memories were of his family at Christmas – hanging Christmas lights together, his mother preparing a huge Christmas Eve feast each year, the excitement of Christmas mornings. . . Yet instead of making him happy, the memories left him feeling a bit sad and lonely.

Hank tapped Scott on the shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"You know," he said, "You're welcome to come to Iowa with me. My mom would be thrilled to have you. Though I should warn you, my extended family can be a bit . . . exuberant." Scott smiled at the offer, but shook his head.

"Thanks. But I think I should stay here with the Professor. I don't want him to be alone on Christmas." Hank smiled, giving Scott's hair a quick ruffle.

"Well, if you change your mind . . ."

An hour later they had made use of every ornament and strand of light they could find. Hank dragged a dusty ladder down from the attic so that Scott could climb up and place the antique angel at the top of the tree. Angel in place, they stood back to admire their handiwork.

"Not bad," said Hank. Scott smiled back at him. He thought it was the most beautiful tree he had ever seen.

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Four days before Christmas, Scott sat in his bedroom, absentmindedly watching the snow fall outside his window. It was just a light dusting, adding a fresh, powder white layer to the nearly two feet of snow that had fallen earlier in the week. An unopened book sat next to him and his worn, shabby bear was held loosely in his hands. He looked down at it sadly, running his fingers over its tattered seams.

Hank watched him from the doorway. He was packed and ready to leave for the airport, but didn't want to go without wishing Scott a Merry Christmas. Scott had become increasingly sad and pensive over the last few days and he worried about leaving him alone with Charles over the holiday. After a few moments, Hank stepped inside the room, sitting on the window seat beside Scott.

Scott had not seen him enter and startled a bit when he sat. When he looked up to meet Hank's eyes he was surprised to see the old, fur-less Hank staring back at him.

"You're not blue," he signed. Hank smiled.

"No, not today," he said, pausing. "Speaking of which, I haven't had a chance to say thank you . . . for convincing me to, well, be me." Scott smiled at that before Hank continued, "But I guess I'm not quite ready for the rest of the world to see the real me. Baby steps, you know."

"I understand," said Scott. Hank nodded appreciatively. They sat quietly for a moment, Hank watching Scott pick absentmindedly at the old bear. After a few moments, he put a hand on Scott's knee.

When Scott looked up, Hank said, "I have to ask. What's the story with the bear?" Scott was surprised by the question. He looked down for moment, unsure of what to say. He and Hank had grown close since his arrival in New York, but Hank had never asked Scott about his family, had never pushed him to talk about his past. He knew that Hank must know his story – that his parents were dead, that he had been abused on more than one occasion, and that he had been passed from one foster home to another – but he had never expected Scott to talk about it. Scott preferred to keep it that way, but when he lifted his hands, he found himself telling the truth.

"When I woke up in the hospital after the plane crash, after my parents . . . he was there," he said, pointing to the bear. "The nurse told me he had been found at the crash site. I didn't remember him – I didn't remember a lot after waking from the coma. I'm not even sure if he was mine or my little brother's. But I've had him ever since. I know he's not in the best shape, but he's all I have of my family." As he finished, he look down at his lap a bit embarrassed. Hank nudged him playfully with his elbow, and when Scott looked up, Hank had a small, understanding smile on his face.

"Well," he said, "I just wanted to say Merry Christmas before I head off. You're sure you'll be alright here with the Grinch . . ."

Scott laughed, "Yeah, I'll be okay. Say hi to Edna for me." Hank nodded and reached over, pulling Scott into a hug. Then he stood and walked out the door, turning back and giving Scott a small smile and a nod as he left.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Scott did not see much of Charles in the days leading up to Christmas. Once in a while he would peek into Charles' study to say hello. Charles would smile and ask how he was doing, and then return his eyes to his work until Scott took the hint and sulked off. On Christmas Eve, Charles joined him for a game of chess by the fire (he had been teaching Scott to play), but then went to bed early, wishing Scott a goodnight.

Scott woke the next morning to the smell of pancakes and maple syrup. He thought that Edna must be busy in the kitchen before he woke fully and realized it had been weeks since Edna had returned to Iowa. Now curious, he kicked off his covers and shivered, heading down the hallway towards the kitchen with his arms wrapped tightly across his chest. He was nearly through the lobby when he stopped. Glancing at the giant Christmas tree, his mouth fell open. Beneath the tree were piles and piles of presents that he was sure had not been there the night before.

Pancakes forgotten, he moved closer to the tree. Perched on top of the highest pile of presents was a shaggy, brown teddy bear. Gently, he took it in his hands and stared at it, curious and confused. Then he glanced at the present on which the bear had been sitting a moment ago. It was labeled "To Scott." In fact, as he glanced around, all of the presents seemed to be made out to him. His arms dropped to his side, his new bear clutched in his right hand as he stood, staring in disbelief at the mounds of gifts before him.

"Merry Christmas, Scott."

Scott jumped a foot at Charles' telepathic greeting. Slowly, he turned to face Charles, his face the picture of uncertainty.

"I don't understand," he signed slowly. "Did you . . . all this . . . but you hate Christmas," Scott finally managed.

"It's true, Christmas isn't my favorite time of year," said Charles with a grin, "but Hank reminded me that you haven't had a proper Christmas in quite some time and that I should perhaps . . . what was it? Pull a stick out of somewhere or something?" Scott smiled, but the smile quickly vanished as he glanced back at the piles of presents.

"You didn't have to . . . this is too much," said Scott.

"Would it make you feel any better if I told you that half of those boxes are filled with socks and underwear?" Charles asked with smile. When Scott did not return the smile, Charles sighed.

"Scott, I'm sorry that I haven't been the best person to spend Christmas with. It's not always easy for me to find joy in the season. But doing this," he said, pointing to the presents, "this brought me a great deal of joy. Having you here this year has made Hank and I very happy. So please, let's celebrate that."

"But I didn't get you anything," said Scott, guilt written across his face.

"Scott, look around," said Charles, pointing to the mansion around him with a smile on his face, "I'm actually quite wealthy. There's nothing I need – nothing that would make me as happy as spending Christmas here with you." Scott nodded, and then held up the bear in his hands.

"Aren't I a bit old for teddy bears?" he asked. Charles smiled kindly.

"Hank felt you should have a bear from each of your families." Scott's face was blank. Charles began to worry that he had upset him. For once, Scott was glad he was wearing his glasses so that Charles couldn't see his suddenly teary eyes.

"He told you what I said," said Scott. It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes. Though it wasn't hard to guess, to be honest. No one would keep that disgusting thing around unless it had special meaning," Charles said with a smile.

"I know it's silly," Scott signed, not meeting Charles' eyes. Charles' expression became thoughtful.

"Come here," he said, rolling up the sleeve on his left arm, "Look at this." Scott approached, glancing down at Charles' wrist where he was pointing. He wore a gold wristwatch, a bit worn and rough around the edges.

"It doesn't even work," said Charles.

"Then why do you wear it?" asked Scott.

"My father gave it to me a long time ago, before he died. I guess I could never bring myself to get rid of it. Silly, isn't it?"

"I don't think it's silly," Scott said.

"And neither is you holding onto that old bear," Charles signed, meeting Scott's eyes. "Now," he continued, "what are you waiting for? These presents aren't going to open themselves." Scott gave him a small smile, then carefully set the new bear on the table beside him and began to unwrap his presents. He opened a new winter coat, snow pants and boots, endless clothes, several books, board games, and puzzles, and just as Charles had promised, plenty of socks and underwear.

Scott and Charles enjoyed a wonderful pancake breakfast. The pancakes were slightly burnt (Charles was

not the best cook, after all), but Scott wasn't lying when he swore that they were the best pancakes he'd ever tasted. The rest of the day was spent by the fire, putting together one of Scott's new jigsaw puzzles. Charles told Scott stories of his childhood, growing up in the mansion. Before he knew it, Scott was telling Charles about his own family – his mom, dad, and his little brother Alex.

When Charles wished him a good night, Scott smiled brightly and headed off to bed. But as he curled under his blanket, holding his two bears close, his smile disappeared. A few minutes later, he was crying himself to sleep.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Hank returned from Iowa just before New Year's Day. He brought well wishes from Edna, and more cookies than the three of them could ever eat. A few days later, Charles announced that Scott had had enough time to adjust to life in New York and that it was time for him to return to classes. Between Scott's social anxiety and the fact that he had missed a considerable amount of school, Charles decided it would be best for Scott to be homeschooled. He had prepared a series of tests to gage Scott's progress in each subject; Scott read well beyond his grade level (he had always been an avid reader, except for the six months or so that he'd been effectively blind), but was behind in most other subjects.

Scott was scheduled to begin classes with Charles in a few days and was determined to enjoy what little freedom he had left. To that end, he grabbed his coat and headed outdoors. The sun was shining brightly, and it was nearly fifty degrees. The snow was melting quickly in the sun, dripping from the rooftop and the trees. Scott made his way through the gardens, in the direction of the now-thawing lake.

As he passed under a giant oak tree, a large, slushy snowball came out of nowhere, hitting him square on the top of the head. He was so surprised that he slipped on the soggy pathway – his feet coming out from under him – and landed on his rear. When he glanced up, he saw the teenage girl, Jean Grey, looking down on him from the tree branch above, giggling a bit as he struggled to wipe the snow from his hair and neck. She swung down from the tree branch, offered Scott a hand, and pulled him to his feet. She was speaking as she did so, her lips moving quickly. Scott was still a bit disoriented, and caught only every fifth word or so:

". . . Sorry . . . hear . . . Jean . . ."

When he still didn't respond, she began to look concerned, waving her hand in front of his eyes, as if checking for a response. Scott focused more closely, this time understanding the majority of what she said.

"Hellooo? Are you okay? Didn't you hear me calling you?"

Scott stared back at her for a moment before giving his head a quick shake and signing, "Sorry. I didn't hear you. I'm deaf."

Jean blinked a couple times, and continued to stare at him like maybe he'd hit his head in the fall. Scott sighed. He'd grown so used to being surrounded by people who signed that he had almost forgotten that most people didn't. He opened his mouth slightly, considering explaining with his voice, but hesitated. Even with months of speech therapy, he was still uncomfortable speaking, even in front of Hank and Charles. He knew his voice sounded strange to hearing people. So instead, he pointed to his ear and hoped that Jean would get the message.

"What, is something wrong with your ear?" she asked. Then suddenly it seemed to click. "Oh . . . you're deaf?" Scott nodded.

"Oh . . . sorry," she said, looking slightly embarrassed. "Do you . . . um . . . do you read lips or something?" Scott nodded again, starting to feel like a bit of an idiot.

"I'm Jean Grey," she said, holding out her hand. Scott took her hand self-consciously, and shook it. She was pretty and tall – at least a head taller than him. Probably a year or two older, too.

When Jean realized that she was not going to get a name in return, she continued, "You're Scott right? Charles told me about you. I mean, that you live here." She continued to ramble, "I had a lesson with Charles today. I'm just waiting for my Dad to pick me up. Sometimes I just come out here, and hang out in this tree."

She stopped talking, seemingly out of things to say. She stuck her hands in her pocket, and glanced down at her feet. They stood together for a few awkward moments before Jean's father pulled into the mansion's driveway. Jean looked more than a little relieved as she said, "Well, my Dad's here. It was nice meeting you." Then she turned and ran to her father's car, leaving a slightly ruffled Scott behind her.

(Thanks to all who have stuck with the story despite the infrequent updates. Wishing you all a happy holiday and New Year!)


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